


Vain Fantasy

by prufrocking



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Bisexuality, Gratuitous French, Humor, M/M, Multi, Underage Drinking, so much bisexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-12 18:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4490370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prufrocking/pseuds/prufrocking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Why is this British guy dressed like a watermelon</em>, Arthur thought, but what came out of his mouth instead was “Arthur.”</p><p>(Or, the one where they're all techies.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Instead of working on a) my five million WIPs or b) my final Japanese paper, my brain decided to focus on exorcising this fic from my brain. I can't remember the last time I wrote this fast. This is the worst best idea I've ever had and my best friend is terrible for talking me into this. I usually don't post unfinished work but I'm pretty confident this will get finished (because writing it is literally like performing an exorcism right now). Unfortunately I'm busy with ~*responsibilities and probably won't get to sit down and actually finish it for a couple of weeks.
> 
> 2) I realise there's another theatre AU that went up recently. This is a happy accident.
> 
> This fic is also ending up a little too close to my high school experiences, which is another happy accident.
> 
> 3) Title is from Mercutio's Queen Mab speech in _Romeo and Juliet_ because I'm really good at being subtle.

“They picked _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” Cobb announces from where he’s sitting, dangling his legs over the edge of the proscenium. If it were anyone other than Cobb, the dangling might’ve been kind of adorable, but since it _is_ Cobb, it just manages to look pretentious instead.

There’s a bit of an echo throughout the theatre as all the techies sitting in the front row stare blankly at him. Cobb stares back, waiting.

Ariadne is the first to break the silence: “ _What_?”

When they conducted the beginning-of-year tech survey, _Romeo and Juliet_ had won “least favourite Shakespearean play” by a landslide. Unfortunately for them, the theatre department never took the tech vote into consideration.

“ _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” Cobb repeats, stilted. “We’re opening the weekend before Thanksgiving.”

“I thought we do comedies and tragedies on alternate semesters every year,” Nash replies, confused. “Last year was _Macbeth_ , wasn’t i—”

The entire theatre immediately goes dark.

“Oops,” Nash says.

Arthur hits him over the head with his notebook because after three blackouts, two wardrobe malfunctions, and a collapsing door, he really should know better.

Cobb sighs and takes a flashlight out of his pocket. “I’ll go find Miles.”

* * *

Arthur’s honestly not a superstitious person, even if something goes wrong in the theatre every time Nash accidentally says the M-word. He doesn’t even care that much about theatre; joining tech was an accident, spurred on by his next-door neighbour practically grovelling at his feet a week into Arthur’s freshman year of high school.

“We need _one_ person,” Dom had said that day. “ _One_ person, or the class is going to get cancelled. All you have to do is show up; I’ll even cover for you if you don’t want to do anything.”

Arthur stared at him for two minutes before becoming mildly disturbed because Dom looked like he was about to get on his knees and beg. He sighed. “Fine.” One year of art was a graduation requirement and Dom was basically promising him an easy A.

Somewhere between singlehandedly reorganising the mess that was the shop—no one had done inventory for _seven years straight, what the hell even_ —and becoming frighteningly competent with a jigsaw, Arthur had somehow defied the high school pecking order and become the crew’s unanimous pick for ASM (only because Dom Cobb was an insane genius and he was going to hold onto the stage manager mantle until he graduated, the year before Arthur would). The production of their fall play that year managed to go more smoothly than the art high school’s had. With half the budget.

* * *

“I get that the school hasn’t done _Romeo and Juliet_ since we were in elementary school,” Ariadne starts, “but _really_? _Romeo and Juliet_ is literally the most boring play to design a set for. I would have more fun designing _Waiting for Godot_.” Her brow is furrowed as she clicks around on the department laptop, looking at a few award-winning set designs for inspiration. It’s a little futile since Cobb has yet to decide on a period for the show, but ever since the Great Set Disaster from her freshman year where she almost stabbed the last set designer with a screwdriver because he didn’t turn in designs until three weeks before opening, she’s made it a personal policy to start brainstorming as early as possible.

“I think it’s rather fitting for Mal’s senior year,” Eames muses as he smirks at Cobb, who is currently tapping feverishly at his phone while standing next to the dimmer for the house lights; Cobb is notoriously slow at replying to texts from everyone who isn’t Mal. “She’s already used to fraternizing with the enemy. I bet she even convinced the drama freshmen to all vote for it because of how much she could relate to Juliet.”

Ariadne shifts uncomfortably in her chair and Eames’s expression changes very subtly, looking like he’s had an epiphany about why Ariadne is so awkward about going to cast afterparties. She frowns at him and goes back to looking at sample sets.

“How are you so sure she’s getting the lead?” Nash asks, because he’s Nash.

“Nepotism,” Eames replies at the same time Ariadne and Arthur simultaneously say, “Talent.”

“Nepotism?” Nash frowns, confused. “Aren’t you her cousin?”

Eames grins, motioning toward his clothes. “How do you think _I_ was allowed to be in charge of costumes?” The effect’s not as strong because his clothes are fairly normal today, even a little bit fashionable—he tells everyone that Mal forces him to buy these kinds of clothes sometimes, but everyone who’s known him long enough knows he’s lying—but it’s also not Blind-Everyone-With-Bright-And-Jarring-Colours Day. (Blind-Everyone-With-Bright-And-Jarring-Colours Day, as it’s written on most calendars, is Wednesday.)

Ariadne huffs fondly because she’s now immune to Eames fishing for compliments about his design sense and Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose because he never fell for it in the first place.

Nash, however, has yet to get with the program. “Why do you always say things like that? You’re a great designer.”

“Don’t feed his ego,” Arthur says sternly before Eames can coo over Nash like he usually does when someone takes the bait.

“But _darling_ ,” Eames protests, exaggerating the poshness of his accent, “My ego and I are growing boys! How are we to survive in the world if you don’t feed us?”

Ariadne’s shoulders shake as she tries to hide her laughing.

* * *

Stephen Miles was hired to replace the theatre department director a month after they finished striking the _Macbeth_ set. Arthur has this date committed to memory mostly because Stephen Miles’s daughter and nephew transferred to their school on the same day and Dom spent half of it sending Arthur increasingly distressed texts.

 _I want to throw up_ , the first one, sent at 12:33pm, had read. _My head is spinning and my heart keeps fluttering_ , said the second one. _I think I met an angel today_ , Dom continued. _Arthur, help. This is an emergency._

 _Did you let Yusuf talk you into buying pot from his discount stash again?_ Arthur texted back, finally fed up with how much his phone was buzzing in his pocket.

 _No_ , came the reply, two minutes later—which surprised Arthur, honestly, because it usually took at least forty minutes for Dom to reply. Dom followed up with a _Shit_ almost immediately after.

When five minutes had passed without him elaborating, Arthur sent back a _?_.

 _It is the east and she is the sun_ , Dom replied dramatically, because that was his default. _I just saw her coming out of the drama classroom._

 _You do know that Romeo and Juliet die, right?_ wrote Arthur. If this were two years ago, Arthur would’ve told Dom to stop being such a drama queen, but the actor-techie rivalry turned out to not be as stupid as Arthur used to think it was; he _did_ want to strangle every actor he had ever met. Especially the freshmen. Freshman drama kids were the _worst_.

 _Yes_ , said Dom’s reply. _But I’m confident we won’t, because our love is true. I’ve already named our children Philippa and James._

 _Do you even know her name?_ Arthur asked, because he was a saint who did not comment on his childhood friends’ questionable tastes in baby names.

 _No,_ Dom replied. _But I know she’s French. Why did I decide to take Spanish again?_ he added.

Arthur rolled his eyes. _Because this is California_ , he answered. _Also, I am rolling my eyes at you right now_ , he added, because Dom wasn’t around to see him rolling his eyes.

 _You have French next, right?_ Dom sent. _Can I crash your class?_

 _It’s an AP class, Dom_ , Arthur replied. As if on cue, the bell signalling the end of their lunch period rang and Arthur sighed, putting his phone back in his pocket after he picked his backpack up off the hallway floor. He walked down the hall to his next class, ignoring the incessant buzzing the entire time.

Arthur was about to open the door when someone all but crashed into his back. He turned around, annoyed, only to be greeted by a sheepish smile and a very English accent saying, “Pardon me, but is this the classroom for Advanced Placement French?”

“Uh,” Arthur answered eloquently; Eames likes to say that this is the part where Arthur felt weak at the knees from hearing his voice for the first time, but Stephen Miles was hired on a Wednesday and Arthur was mostly just in shock from how bright Eames’s clothes were. “Yes.”

“Excellent. _Je m’appelle Eames_ ,” Eames replied, beaming. He was wearing a salmon hoodie with neon green skinny jeans and Arthur felt the overwhelming urge to stab himself in the eyes.

 _Why is this British guy dressed like a watermelon_ , Arthur thought, but what came out of his mouth instead was “Arthur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Set Disaster is a thing that actually happened to me, except we had two weeks and not three.
> 
> As always, you can come laugh at me on [Tumblr](http://prufrockings.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to try to post this last week, but I ended up going to see my favourite Japanese rock band instead. Then finals happened but now I'm home free! ...until the fall semester starts in a week and a half, anyway.
> 
> Also, I ended up making a few edits to the first chapter because I'm really bad at accounting for how school years work.

“How does everyone feel about the 20s?” Cobb asks the Friday after the announcement. Miles’s office backstage is a little cramped with all fifteen of them in there, but they don’t have a proper classroom and Miles has already started conducting auditions in the main theatre because a lot of actors have an early start class schedule.

 _Sure, why not_ is the general consensus of the room, mostly because everyone hates the play so much that they just want to get it done without much fuss; Ariadne and Eames are the only ones who actually seem kind of intrigued by the choice.

“I have one problem with that,” Yusuf says. “If we’re going to use recordings, horns are going to sound really weird because one of the stage left speakers is starting to crackle around 65Hz.”

Arthur has a sudden flashback to the day Yusuf sat in the audio booth with his laptop plugged in, playing cacophonous sounds and vocal recordings seemingly at random; when Arthur asked him if he was high, Yusuf answered “ _No_ ” in the slow and emphatic way only people who are high speak.

“Can’t we just ask the jazz band?” Arthur suggests, because Yusuf has been trying to get him to replace audio equipment ever since Miles gave him formal permission to handle the budget after they wrapped _Carnival_.

“Then we’re going to need better mics so they don’t overpower the actors,” Yusuf replies. “And while I’m at it, we still need to replace the soundboard and some idiot freshman screwed up coiling XLRs _again—_ ” Yusuf pauses when he catches the way Saito is not-glaring at him because Tadashi looks alarmed; there were only four freshmen who signed up for tech this year and Saito took one of them under his wing because the kid could understand English well enough but he wasn’t that comfortable speaking it yet. Yusuf continues quickly, “Tadashi, don’t worry; you’re a freshman but you’re not an idiot.” He takes a breath. “My _point_ , we also need to replace a few cables because—”

Arthur runs a hand over his face; no one knows audio like Yusuf knows audio and Yusuf is not above using that knowledge to manipulate Arthur’s budget decisions. “We can replace the soundboard and that’s it,” he says, because Arthur is starting to grow wise to Yusuf’s ways. (That, and Saito would probably have his head if he took too much away from the lighting budget even though Saito could probably buy _his own theatre_.)

Yusuf shrugs. “I’ll try to work with that,” he says, placated enough that he sounds marginally less irritated than he usually does when Cobb asks him to work audio miracles and Arthur tells him to listen to Cobb.

“Anyone else have concerns?” Cobb asks, glancing over the room.

Nash raises his hand. “I don’t think we have enough guns.”

Arthur thinks about the terrible 1996 Leonardo DiCaprio movie and the distaste must show on his face because he can hear Eames trying to cover his snickering with a fake cough.

“We aren’t going to use guns,” Cobb replies, giving Nash a judgemental squint because Cobb hates that rendition of _Romeo and Juliet_ even more than Arthur does, even if it’s the most text-accurate adaptation. (Arthur’s not sure how much of that is because everyone kept teasing Cobb in middle school because he looked like Romeo.)

“Oh,” Nash says, gingerly pulling his hand back down. “I don’t think we have enough daggers either.”

“Then _make_ some; you’re the props master,” Cobb says, exasperated. He sighs. “Anything else?” Eames raises his hand and Cobb pointedly ignores him. “All right, time to talk about the planning party.”

Eames’s hand is still raised when the crew leads all look at him. “What?” he asks, putting his hand down.

“Planning party,” Cobb repeats, enunciating slowly.

“You want _me_ to—?” Eames answers, incredulous. “Okay, first off, I never made any promises to host this one. Even if I wanted to—which I _don’t_ , just for the record, because cleaning up last year was a right _pain in the arse_ —we can’t, because Mum and Aunt Marie invited some clients over for dinner.”

“Oh.” Cobb actually looks vaguely dejected.

“Bloody hell, you wanted to flirt with Mal the entire time, didn’t you?” Eames leers at him, but there’s a slight undercurrent of irritation under his smirk.

“Er,” Cobb replies, unsure.

“Guys, focus,” Ariadne says forcefully. “If not Eames’s house, where are we going?”

The loud ticking of Miles’s old-fashioned cuckoo clock echoes off the walls, an awkward silence blanketing the room as no one offers to host.

“What about Yusuf’s?” Eames suggests eventually.

“ _What?_ ” Yusuf hisses, betrayed.

“Didn’t your mum say she wanted to host one?” Eames asks, tilting his head.

Yusuf’s face scrunches up in confusion—first over when exactly the last time Eames had spoken to his mother was, then over whether or not she had actually said anything along those lines—until the memory hits him like a brick. He scowls. “Eames, my parents are obligated to say things like that because they’re Indian. _Obligated_.”

“But I’m certain she was genuinely interested,” Eames replies earnestly.

Yusuf’s face contorts in a myriad of ways as he struggles to retort because Eames is right but Yusuf promised his parents that he wouldn’t bring any more theatre stuff home in exchange for permission to adopt their fifth cat; if Eames were to find out, he would probably mock Yusuf for being a budding cat lady for the entire production.

Instead of waiting for Yusuf to come up with a plausible excuse for Eames, Nash asks, “Will there be pot?”

Eames bursts out laughing because he’s a terrible best friend and the incredulous squint Yusuf directs at Nash would give Cobb a run for his money.

Nash flinches. “No?”

“Why would I have pot at my _house_?” Yusuf cries, throwing his arms up in frustration. “What part of _my bloody parents are Indian_ do you not _understand_?”

Cobb sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Now that we’ve gotten the pot issue out of the way, can we _please_ decide on a meeting time?”

“Hold it _right there_ , mate!” Yusuf protests. “I didn’t agree to—”

Cobb and Eames both begin trying to talk over Yusuf and each other as Ariadne tries in vain to calm them down. Saito stares at Miles’s cuckoo clock like he can’t believe he’s surrounded by idiots and most of the freshmen and sophomores are starting to inch toward the door because the school bell letting them out of the final class period is about to ring.

Saito then turns his head to look at Arthur, giving him a pointed expression that says _Fix this_.

Arthur sighs. “All of you, _shut up_!” he yells, not as menacingly as he would have liked but two of the freshmen drop their bags in fear.

“ _What?!_ ” Cobb, Eames, and Yusuf all snap, turning away from each other to look at Arthur in unison.

Arthur’s hand twitches; he takes a deep, calming breath and tries to suppress the urge to murder. “We’ll do the planning party at my house, 3pm tomorrow.”

“ _Your_ house?” Ariadne immediately asks, concerned. “Isn’t it a little too small for all of us?”

“Yes,” Arthur replies, “and that’s why only the crew leads will be coming.” Not unexpectedly, half the room promptly stops paying attention to him.

“I can’t make it,” Nash says, because as much shit as he takes from everyone he’s still the props master and a junior. “It’s my sister’s birthday.”

Arthur sighs. “Fine, I’ll make a list of props and you can check it over on Monday.”

While Arthur discusses particulars with Nash, Saito takes his phone out of his pocket to check his calendar and scowls as soon as he opens the app. He mutters something in Japanese under his breath and Tadashi’s eyes widen in recognition. He sneaks a glance over Saito’s arm to look at the screen, trying not to laugh when he finally does. Saito hisses something else in Japanese and Tadashi replies at the same volume, patting Saito on the back.

“Problem?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Saito replies. He’s smiling but his eyes are projecting that he wants to die. “Unfortunately, I also have a prior arrangement at that time.”

“Is it that _omee_ thing again?” Arthur tries; he feels a little bad that he’s constantly butchering the Japanese language around native speakers, but there really isn’t much more he knows than _karaoke_ , _sushi_ , and the names of various large Japanese cities.

“ _Omiai_ ,” Tadashi corrects helpfully.

Saito grimaces at the word. Cobb and Arthur asked him what an _omiai_ was once, the first time that Saito missed a build party for one; Saito never gave them a straight answer and only replied bitterly, “An ancient form of torture that still continues today.”

“Yes, that,” Saito answers, grim. Then the bell rings. “I’ll let Ariadne and Eames coordinate colours and then give my input after I see their plans,” he says before joining the exiting stream of Nash-and-the-underclassmen-sans-Ariadne who are waving their good-byes.

Eames walks over to where Arthur is standing, texting his parents, and asks, “What’s your address?”

“526 Charles Court,” Arthur answers, not looking up from his phone. “It’s near the Y.”

“The _YMCA_?” Eames makes a distressed whining sound. He’s still not entirely used to the flow of traffic in the States and keeps failing his behind-the-wheel exam; it was funny until the third time he failed, and now it’s just annoying. “That’s across the bloody city from me.”

“I could drive you,” Yusuf offers, perking up.

Eames looks horrified; Yusuf has driven him home exactly once, the day they found out Eames lived ten minutes away from him. Eames doesn’t like talking about that day. “Cobb?” he tries.

“Sorry, I live at 52 _8_ Charles Court,” Cobb replies, not sounding apologetic at all.

“ _Ariadne_?” Eames tries again.

Ariadne gives him a _look_ , because she literally posts a status update to Facebook every two weeks counting down to when she’ll finally be old enough to apply for her permit. It’s almost as much of a running gag as Eames’s _Why is the DMV so bloody awful_ updates. “I _also_ live on Charles Court,” she says anyway, so Eames doesn’t feel quite so stupid.

Yusuf grins mischievously and Eames sighs, defeated. Yusuf’s really not a half-bad driver, but Eames had been calling Yusuf’s black minivan, which Yusuf had lovingly dubbed the Batmobile, an eclectic mix of terrible names—including but not limited to gems like The Soccer Mum Car and The Catmobile—for an entire month before the fateful drive. In the months since, Eames had upgraded to better names, like The Paedobear—Yes, Spelt The Proper British Way—Drug Van. Eames would say he regrets his life choices, but English boys who spent puberty living in Paris, especially those who had to grow up with Mallorie Miles, do not admit defeat.

“I’ll pick you up at 2:15,” Yusuf says cheerily, slinging his bag over his shoulder and walking out the door before Eames can say anything.

* * *

If Arthur is completely honest with himself, he barely remembers the first few weeks of the spring semester of his sophomore year. He vaguely remembers a lot of things—like the way Nash accidentally set their Bunsen burner too high and shattered an Erlenmeyer during their first lab assignment or the way Ariadne’s eyes lit up when Miles announced that even freshmen would be getting an opportunity to do hands-on, specialized work—but the general fuzziness of it all frustrates him because it emphasizes the things he _does_ remember.

For example, he vividly remembers Mme Durand asking Eames to introduce himself to the class and the way he launched into a long-winded speech that a good half the class, including Arthur, only understood two-thirds of. He remembers Miles introducing Eames and Mal and the easy way Eames smiled directly at him before waving at Yusuf as Dom dug his fingers into Arthur’s arm and hissed _It’s her_. He remembers his sheer _bewilderment_ when Eames declared that his speciality—and that was the way he said it, _speciality_ —was costume design, but he could do everything from makeup to building in a pinch, even though Arthur was highly skeptical that Eames even owned a set of blacks.

Arthur wishes he could blame it on Eames’s insane watermelon ensemble from their first encounter, but he also remembers the baggy Oasis t-shirt Eames was wearing when he and Mal forced their way into joining Arthur and Yusuf on the bleachers during their shared lunch period and the way Eames idly spun his pen around his fingers while he and Miles were going over Ariadne’s first attempt at set design during their first planning party.

Arthur’s good at recognizing patterns—he noticed Ariadne’s crush on Dom after all, and Ariadne may be blunt but she’s _sneaky_ —but this is one he pretends not to see.

* * *

At 1:45pm, Arthur’s father texts their family group chat saying that he got stuck with a second shift at the hospital. Arthur’s mother replies with the OK sign emoji, then follows it up with the pizza emoji, the dollar bill emoji, an arrow emoji, and the computer emoji, her way of telling him that pizza money for dinner is in her office drawer; Arthur’s not sure if he’s more disturbed by his mother’s obsession with emoji or by how he’s begun to understand what she means.

Ariadne shows up at 2:30pm, smiling brightly.

“You’re early,” Arthur says when he opens the door; he doesn’t phrase it like a question, but it is one.

“I wanted to help prepare,” she replies and Arthur almost believes her, but then she makes a beeline for Arthur’s kitchen and grabs a mug from the cabinet.

There was once a time where Ariadne used to ask before grabbing the orange juice carton out of his fridge, but somewhere between Arthur beginning to tutor her in geometry and Ariadne deciding to hang out at his house whenever she wanted because she couldn’t concentrate at hers, she realized that the only people who actually _drank_ the orange juice in Arthur’s house were her and Arthur’s father.

“I used to think you were just being polite about the orange juice,” Arthur notes when he follows her into the kitchen, “but then I realized you were a heathen who drinks pulpless orange juice out of a coffee mug.”

“Shhh, don’t listen to him, he just doesn’t understand your true wonderfulness,” Ariadne coos, stroking the juice carton.

“Pulpless orange juice is _unnatural_ ,” Arthur insists, then Ariadne starts rubbing the carton against her cheek. There is a pause before Arthur’s eye starts to twitch and he finally says, “Please stop doing that.”

Ariadne pours herself some juice and grins victoriously. Arthur wonders not for the first time why all of his friends are so _weird_.

“So I brought two movies that I thought would be good for period reference,” Ariadne says, reaching for her bag after she recaps the carton and places it on the counter. She pulls out DVD cases for _Chicago_ and the 1959 _Some Like It Hot_.

“I think I’m beginning to understand your taste in women,” Arthur deadpans, blocking with his forearms when Ariadne tries to hit him with the DVD cases.

“These ladies are _classy_ ,” Ariadne retorts emphatically, handing the DVDs to Arthur with a final aborted smack so she can put the orange juice back in the fridge.

The door bell rings and Arthur reflexively checks his watch; it’s 2:50pm, which means Cobb has just rolled out of bed. “And that would be Dom,” Arthur declares wryly, walking toward the door. Ariadne salutes and grabs another mug from the cabinet, dutifully heading toward the espresso machine.

When Arthur opens the door, he’s predictably greeted by Cobb’s grumpy caffeine withdrawal face. Cobb grunts incoherently as he walks past Arthur, beginning an uncoordinated crawl toward the kitchen where Ariadne is adding cream to his mug. Just as Arthur is about to close the door, Yusuf’s minivan pulls up to the parking space in front of Arthur’s house. Arthur stares in surprise; he wasn’t expecting them for another ten minutes because Yusuf is always early and Eames is always late, so together they’re always exactly on time.

Then the back door slides opens and Mal steps out, laughing as Eames emerges from the front passenger door, looking traumatized. Yusuf’s grinning when he high-fives Mal on his way to open the hatch to grab their bags.

Mal catches Arthur watching them from his front door, waving as she calls, “Arthur! _Comment ça va?_ ”

Ariadne almost drops Cobb’s mug when she hears her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know, _omiai_ are kind of like blind dates that parents set up for their children to try to get them to marry each other. It typically starts happening once kids remain single in their mid-to-late-twenties, but it's not unheard of for richer families to start earlier than that. The joke with Saito's family is that they're in America and _omiai_ are much more rare among Japanese families living on this side of the Pacific.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Can't Believe It's Not Dead!
> 
> (This fic has never been dead. I just struggled with this chapter for _an entire year_.)

It’s a testament to how severe Cobb’s caffeine addiction is that he doesn’t react when Ariadne unceremoniously shoves his mug into his hands and strides past him. She makes it halfway to the front door before she stops in front of the stairs leading to the second floor, watching Mal and Arthur kiss each other’s cheeks.

“Mal,” Ariadne says weakly, trying for an awkward smile.

“ _Mon petit chou!_ ” Mal answers, beaming at her. She moves toward her and reaches out to exchange the same greeting kisses. “It’s so good to see you.”

Eames trails behind Mal, a tense expression on his face. Normally whenever Mal beats him to greeting Arthur, he cheekily kisses Arthur on the cheek to imitate Mal and Arthur punches him in the stomach just hard enough to almost injure instead of reciprocating, but this time Eames just sighs and gives him a half-hearted wave before walking past him in silence.

“You too,” Ariadne replies, which is the truth, but the number of people who know exactly what happened at the _Carnival_ afterparty is still limited to two: Ariadne, because she started it, and Arthur, because Ariadne told him. (Mal _should_ know, but she drinks like a champ and never remembers anything in the morning.)

Yusuf is the only one to head directly to Arthur’s living room to claim his space on the couch as Mal heads to the kitchen.

“Hello, Dom,” Mal murmurs before kissing him square on the mouth; it’s short and chaste, but it’s still enough to make Eames roll his eyes and sigh again in annoyance.

“Mal?” Cobb asks groggily. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“Unfortunately not,” Eames explains, leaning against the doorframe. “She was _supposed_ to be filling out university applications today, but while I was packing to head out she batted her eyelashes at Aunt Marie, said ‘ _S'il te plaît Maman, je veux les aider_ ,’” he continues, speaking the French in a mocking falsetto and dramatically clasping his hands together before spreading them with a flourish, “and here we are.”

“Ignore Eames, he’s just bitter because Janice broke up with him,” Mal retorts flippantly, taking a hold of the hand Cobb isn’t holding his mug in. “He doesn’t know what it is to be a _lover_ , you know.”

“I’m bitter because you’re going to distract all of us,” Eames mutters, stalking off to join Yusuf in the living room. On his way, he puts his hands on Ariadne’s shoulders and gently steers her toward the couch.

Arthur blinks, because the only Janice they know is the secretary of the debate team and one of the only people in Arthur’s trig class who actually does her own homework; she’s also exactly the kind of stick-in-the-mud personality that Eames delights in mocking Arthur for being, which would be the most bizarre thing about the relationship if it weren’t for the fact that Arthur had heard absolutely _nothing_ about it. Arthur doesn’t particularly care for gossip, only keeping up with the bare minimum he needs to in order to intimidate people, but the rumour mill about Eames’s numerous conquests—which Eames claims are almost all false, but Eames is also a liar—runs so strongly that Arthur couldn’t avoid it even if he wanted to.

(The worst incident to date was still probably the week after word got out that Eames supposedly went on dates with both Moreno siblings, because Mike Landon forced his way onto a physics lab assignment with Arthur before anyone else could get to him and then proceeded to spend the entire time talking about Eames and how Arthur should totally convince him to join the GSA.

“C’mon, just one meeting?” Mike pleaded. “You’re gay, he’s gay—”

“Neither of us are gay,” Arthur interrupted, not looking up from where he was stacking blocks onto the scale. This was _exactly_ why he only went to two GSA meetings in freshman year.

Mike rolled his eyes and crossed his arms as he leaned forward against the table. “Us _queer_ kids need to stick together.”

“We’re in _theatre_ ,” Arthur replied, irritated. After writing down all the block weights, he looked up at Mike and asked, mostly rhetorically, “Why the hell is everyone so obsessed with Eames, anyway?”

“He’s _charming_ ,” Mike said, like that explained everything.

“What he is is an asshole,” Arthur stated bluntly, holding a motion sensor out at Mike. “Now can we get back to actual work?”)

Arthur doesn’t even realize he’s lost in his thoughts until Ariadne yells his name from the living room. Mal turns away from Cobb to look at Arthur in surprise, fond smile dancing on her lips.

“I—” Arthur tries, but all of the variations on “I wasn’t watching you two” he can come up with are all vaguely awkward and creepy.

“Arthur, darling,” Eames calls, insistent, “we all really have no clue how to work your telly.”

“There are cubist paintings that are more intuitively organized than this thing,” Yusuf adds angrily. “What the hell kind of TV only has a power button?”

Arthur flees away from the kitchen in as composed a manner as he can muster. In the living room, he’s greeted by the sight of Eames, sitting between Yusuf and Ariadne on the couch, poking at buttons on the remote and failing to get any response from the screen other than an angry-looking NO INPUT SIGNAL message. Mal and Cobb emerge from the doorway behind him and Eames pushes Yusuf against the armrest so far that he’s practically sitting on top of him, with Ariadne sliding in the other direction so she can cling to the other armrest.

“Quick, Arthur,” says Ariadne, “get on the couch.”

“We leave no man behind to third wheel,” Eames declares, defiant.

Yusuf only grunts, but it sounds vaguely like agreement.

Arthur raises an eyebrow because there’s more than enough room for all four of them on the couch, but instead of calling them out on it he grabs his notebook and pen off the coffee table and flops into the empty space between Eames and Ariadne.

“Whoops,” Eames says flatly as he looks directly at Mal and Cobb, “it looks like you’ll have to sit on the floor.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mal replies coolly as she crawls into the space between the couch and the coffee table, still holding onto Cobb’s hand, “because we’ll be together.”

Arthur rolls his eyes because Mal’s always been a little theatrical in her actions, but Cobb’s influence took it from being charming to kind of insufferable. He puts his notebook on his lap and grabs the remote from where it landed next to Eames’s and Yusuf’s feet.

“You’re all idiots,” Arthur says, pressing the input source button until it changes to the DVD player feed, only to narrow his eyes when the screen starts displaying the selection menu for the 1996 _Romeo + Juliet_.

“Who the hell brought this version,” Cobb demands from his seat on the floor, suddenly fully awake.

“I had a perfectly good reason,” Eames starts, then pauses suspiciously as he tries to come up with his perfectly good reason; he wanted to annoy Arthur but wasn’t anticipating that Cobb would be even more upset about it. “If you think about it, it’s quite a good example of what one can accomplish while still keeping the text exactly the same.”

“Bullshit,” Arthur says, flipping his notebook open to a blank page. “Try harder.”

After another pause, Eames tries, “Would you all believe me if I said I’ve always rather fancied Leo at age twenty?”

“That’s disgusting,” Cobb replies, because Eames convinced all the new techies that Cobb was related to Leonardo DiCaprio two weeks ago and used a variety of stills from the actor’s early filmography as proof.

“I won’t let you steal my boyfriend,” Mal says dangerously, turning around to look at Eames with murder in her eyes.

Ariadne snatches the remote from Arthur and selects _Play Movie_ before things can escalate any further. The loud sweeping drum roll of the 20th Century Fox theme song starts to play and Mal directs one last menacing glare at Eames before turning her attention to the TV.

Eames clears his throat and shifts slightly away from Yusuf, leaning back and settling into his seat. He swings both arms over the backrest and Arthur squeezes his pen as his heart skips a beat, trying not to remember the last time Eames was pressed up against his side like this.

* * *

On a good day, Arthur barely tolerated Walter Hanover; he earned that spot on Arthur’s shit list the fifth time he showed up late.

That said, the minute Arthur discovered that Walter had a completely deserted deck with a porch swing behind his kitchen that Arthur could escape the cast afterparty to, he found himself a little more forgiving of Walter’s behaviour over the past few months.

Then Arthur’s (relative; he could still hear some of the party raging on inside) peace and quiet was promptly disturbed by the person who had already been bothering Arthur for the better part of several months.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you as the party type,” said Eames, the porch swing swaying lightly as he casually took a seat next to Arthur. “Or a drinker for that matter,” he added, pointedly looking at the half-empty red Solo cup Arthur was haphazardly holding as his arm hung over the arm rest.

“That’s because I wouldn’t be here if Ariadne hadn’t roped me into driving her and this,” Arthur replied wryly, briefly lifting the cup and tilting it at Eames, “is Mountain Dew.”

Eames grabbed the cup and took a quick sip, putting it back in Arthur’s hand before he even had a chance to react. “So it is,” he said with a grin, making a show of licking his lips.

Arthur frowned, chest constricting with irritation (it couldn’t have been anything but irritation; there was no other reasonable explanation for why his breath suddenly felt stuck in his throat) at how obscene Eames looked. “Are _you_ drunk?”

Eames’s grin softened into a gentle expression that Arthur had never seen on his face before. “Maybe a little.” A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the soft hum of crickets chirping and the off-key group shout _I am from the gutter too!_ coming from inside the house. “Not as much as them, though,” he added, dry.

Arthur snorted, amused. “Better _Les Mis_ than having to suffer through a version of _Love Makes the World Go ‘Round_ that’s even more off-key than the one we’ve had to listen to for the past month.”

Eames groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Great, now it’s going to be stuck in my head again.”

“Occupational hazard,” Arthur quipped.

Eames sighed, giving Arthur a fond look. “Hey now, I didn’t choose the theatre life. The theatre life chose me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but he was unable to stop himself from smiling either way. “Who’s DJing the party, anyway? Would’ve expected Mal, considering the whole France theme all the actors decided on.”

“Considering it’s all terrible show tunes and weird amounts of Yelle, it’s probably Walter,” Eames answered with a shrug, leaning back on the bench. The drunken crooning had already quieted down into general excited chatter. “I know they _did_ ask Mal, but I think the actors got bored with all the French pop no one else knew.”

“ _I_ know Mal’s music,” Arthur grumbled into his cup.

“Yes, but everyone knows you’re a weird Francophile hipster,” Eames teased.

Arthur made an indignant noise through his mouthful of Mountain Dew, forcing it down so he could retort properly. He almost choked when the laughing cheer of _itchi gitchi ya ya da da_ entered earshot and every possible response to Eames’s accusation died in his throat.

Eames barked out a surprised laugh when recognition hit him. “Okay, that’s definitely Walter.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t expect this song to play at some point tonight,” Arthur said with a sigh, setting the empty Solo cup on the floor of the deck.

“So, Arthur,” Eames said plainly.

“What?” Arthur turned his head to look back at Eames.

“ _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?_ ” Eames recited in unison with the song, grinning at Arthur.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, putting on the best poker face he could muster, and asked, “ _Vouvoyer_ , Monsieur Eames?”

Eames blinked, eyes wide like he hadn’t been expecting Arthur to reply like that. He paused before leaning toward Arthur with a conspiratorial smirk.

“Veux-tu,” Eames breathed, emphasis making it sound more intimate than a joke had any right to be, “ _coucher avec moi?_ ”

Arthur swallowed, mouth dry, and the sudden warmth pooling in his stomach and his face made him begin to suspect that his drink might’ve been spiked after all.

Neither of them were quite sure how long they sat there like that, just staring at each other in silence, but it was long enough for Eames’s smirk to slide off his face, replaced with something that looked closer to nervous anticipation than anything else. He put a hand on Arthur’s knee, a question, and Arthur’s heart pounded in his chest, thoughts he had refused to entertain suddenly threatening to crash down unceremoniously in a crescendo.

And yet, for some inexplicable reason, Arthur still leaned in, slow and hesitant, unable to shake the feeling that maybe the past few months of exasperation and mutual scathing insults had been leading them to this point the entire time, just _maybe_ —only for the rest of the world to come rushing back into view as Arthur’s phone began to ring, shrill.

Eames cleared his throat, pulling back entirely out of Arthur’s personal space as Arthur moved to pull his phone out of his pocket, standing up. Eames stared at the floor, dragging his feet as the bench swayed with the sudden loss of Arthur’s body weight.

It didn’t take long after Arthur answering the call for Ariadne to shakily declare, “I think I fucked up.”

 _We should form a club_ , Arthur couldn’t help but think as he put his hand on top of the short wall next to the stairs leading to the yard. “What happened?”

“I...” Ariadne started, then made a frustrated sound. “I don’t know, I just...”

Arthur took a couple of steps down the stairs, hand on the wooden railing. “Do you want to go home?”

“No,” Ariadne answered, “but I don’t want to stay.” She sounded off, somehow, but Arthur couldn’t tell if she’d been trying not to cry or if she was just still drunk.

“Okay,” Arthur said decisively, jumping down the rest of the length of the small stairwell. “Meet me at my car. I’m coming out the yard entrance.”

As he hung up and put his phone back in his pocket, he paused and glanced up at Eames; Eames was looking back at him, but his expression was closed off and Arthur suddenly felt more unsteady than he had in a long time. “See you Monday” was too awkward in light of what had just happened between them—and Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe it had only just happened in his head regardless, because that was the only thing that would even make any _sense_ —but Arthur didn’t know what else he _could_ say to Eames.

He almost let out an audible sigh of relief when Eames picked Arthur’s cup off the floor and went back inside the house without saying or doing anything.

Ariadne was leaning with her arms crossed on Arthur’s car’s passenger side door when Arthur finally pushed open the yard gate.

“You look like shit,” Arthur said unceremoniously. He wasn’t actually sure how Ariadne was managing to stay vertical.

“Probably because I feel like shit,” she replied with a mirthless laugh, wobbling as she pushed herself off the car.

Arthur unlocked the passenger side door first, helping Ariadne in before getting behind the wheel himself.

Several minutes of companionable yet awkward silence fell between them as Arthur concentrated on driving. They were halfway back to Ariadne’s house, stopped at a traffic light, when Arthur took a deep breath to ask about what happened.

Instead, he got interrupted by Ariadne blurting, “I kissed Mal.”

Arthur stared at her in surprise, not noticing that the light had turned green long enough that the car behind them honked. He pushed the gas pedal a little more forcefully than usual, and the car jerked forward in kind.

“Or, well, she kissed me, I think, and I guess it was more like making out so it doesn’t matter—we were both really drunk—but,” Ariadne stammered. “It...it was nice,” she finally admitted, hesitant.

“I...see,” Arthur said slowly. He really didn’t know what else to say; this was a development that came completely out of left field, especially considering Ariadne’s long-standing crush on Dom. He was build and design crew before he was stage manager, and Ariadne had gotten close to him because of it while they were working on _Macbeth_.

It wasn’t like Arthur and Ariadne actually _talked_ about it, but Ariadne’s crush was one of those situations where Arthur knew that Ariadne knew that Arthur noticed her feelings for Dom a long time ago and they tacitly agreed to never discuss it in light of Dom’s crush on Mal and his utter lack of filter when it came to how he planned to woo Mal.

The silence was a lot more awkward this time.

“I’ve never felt like this about a girl before,” Ariadne eventually said, quiet. “I didn’t think I _could_ , especially not when I still...”

“Bisexuality _is_ a thing,” Arthur noted when Ariadne didn’t continue; he felt like he was saying that a _lot_ lately, but this was probably the least annoyed he’s been while saying it.

“I know, it’s just...I ran into them, later,” she said, breath shaking. “Dom and Mal.”

 _Oh,_ Arthur thought.

“They were talking, and they looked so _perfect_ together, and you could _feel_ that they were in love, and I—” Ariadne’s voice cracked as she choked down a sudden sob. “ _I couldn’t tell which one I was more jealous of_ ,” she managed to say, then she couldn’t keep the tears at bay anymore. She put her head in her hands and started crying.

Arthur pulled over to a dark, mostly deserted curb and turned the engine off.

“I don’t know what to _do_ ,” Ariadne whispered, miserable.

 _Me neither_ , Arthur thought, but the least he could do right now was let her cry in peace until she calmed down and sobered up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the shitty joke that is 80% responsible this chapter taking a whole year to write, this fic will never go up in rating.


End file.
